


With One Look

by vega_voices



Series: Come Rain, Come Shine [9]
Category: Murphy Brown (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Idiots in Love, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15722940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vega_voices/pseuds/vega_voices
Summary: He’d expected her to be a force of nature. He’d expected her to storm in and possibly kill him for being in her space. He hadn’t been expecting to get lost in the most stunning set of indigo blue eyes he’d ever dared to look in to. He hadn’t been expecting so much power into such a compact frame. He hadn’t been expecting flowing blonde hair, and a choker necklace, and the way her lips quirked when she stared back at him.





	With One Look

**Title:** With One Look  
**Author:** vegawriters  
**Fandom:** Murphy Brown  
**Series:** Come Rain, Come Shine  
**Pairing:** Murphy Brown/Peter Hunt (UST)  
**Timeframe:** _The More Things Change_ (season 6)  
**Rating:** Teen. Yes, yes, we know that any time Peter and Murphy so much as look at each other, the world explodes. But work with me. They didn’t start off having sex. They just started off making everyone around them really uncomfortable as they stared at each other and imagined ripping each other's clothes off. That's a rating, right?  
**A/N:** I think this whole series is just dedicated to viktoire because without her, my girlfriend would get double the rambling and ranting.  
**Disclaimer** : My heart and soul loves this series, and I don’t make a penny off of anything here. In fact, some of the lines are dialog from the show and that should be noted. I’m just taking the babies for a spin. I promise not to hurt them any more than the show runners did.

 **Summary:** _He’d expected her to be a force of nature. He’d expected her to storm in and possibly kill him for being in her space. He hadn’t been expecting to get lost in the most stunning set of indigo blue eyes he’d ever dared to look in to. He hadn’t been expecting so much power into such a compact frame. He hadn’t been expecting flowing blonde hair, and a choker necklace, and the way her lips quirked when she stared back at him._

Six months overseas. Six months of dodging bullets, climbing on tanks, having guns held to his head, and watching kids get shot. Kids no older than his nephew, who whenever Peter went to visit his sister, would climb in his lap and chatter away about life at school.

Three weeks ago, he’d been standing on a street corner, getting photographs, talking with his crew, when a bomb went off. In the chaos and smoke, a little boy lay at his feet, screaming, and Peter grabbed him and ran to the nearest hospital - which was really just a tent with cots and medical volunteers trying to clean wounds - and screamed for help.

He still had the shirt. Covered in the little boy’s blood. He didn’t know if the kid had made it. But all he saw when he closed his eyes was the tiny hand, clutching so tightly the volunteer had needed to pry each finger free. Peter had sat, in the way, not paying attention to his own bumps and bruises, until his camera man had shown up and nudged him away.

Now, he stood on the 17th floor of the network office building in DC, waiting for his agent and the suits to come to a decision about his future. “I need time stateside,” he’d said. “Not full time, but maybe in locations where I’m dodging fewer bullets.”

As the negotiations ticked on, the haze of the moment on that street in Bosnia faded and he started to regret the choice. How dare he go back to DC and the apartment he almost never saw and sleep well at night while kids were dying in the streets.

Still. The idea of sitting still in a place where he was pretty sure he wouldn’t get blown to bits was too tempting to pass up, as was the offer to join the crew on FYI. Turning down the chance to work alongside Jim Dial and Frank Fontana and Murphy Brown was too much. It was an honor, and one to be respected. As for Corky Sherwood, she seemed fun.

“Just … can I have an out clause?” He asked his agent. That was an easy addition. The network liked him, and he had no problem milking that.

The newsroom was quiet. Just a couple of people at computers. Peter walked over to the assignment board. Three weeks worth of assignments planned out. Jim’s commentaries, Murphy’s interviews, Frank’s investigations, Corky’s pop culture conversations. He wasn’t sure where he’d fit in, but something would work. He suspected he’d be heading back overseas, but at least he had a home base now, right?

Crap. He’d better make some calls. The contract wasn’t final yet.

It felt weird hopping on a call in the middle of the newsroom. An office beckoned and he walked over, testing the knob, and stepped into the inner sanctum of a legend.

His attention drew him right to the Wall of Fame. Magazine covers spanning back the last few years - some back to the early 80s but the majority covering the last couple of years, including the Esquire magazine that he’d carried with him for a couple of weeks. Who knew Murphy Brown was that sexy and playful?

Life. Time. Emmy. They all wanted a part of a smile that he hadn’t realized she possessed. She was so stoic on camera. He appreciated the sense of humor though - covers of the Enquirer, the Tattler and Mad Magazine also took up space. Huh. Murphy Brown could laugh at herself.

Notes and files piled on a shelf around a vase of yellow roses and he leaned down to test a locked filing cabinet. The hutch behind her glass desk was full of books, research, a couple of novels. What struck him were the statues from different locations - the Vishnu and Shiva, the beer stein from Germany, the dolls from Mexico. Taped to the shelves were photos - everything from cutouts of the Supremes and Aretha Franklin to news clippings of Jake Lowenstein and a photo of Robert Kennedy Jr. The Mr. Rogers one surprised him.

Mostly though, there were photos of her son, including a very tired looking Murphy in a hospital gown holding a newborn. He stared for a long minute, stunned at the innocence in the photo. It wasn’t an image he’d expected.

Okay. So. This was who she was.

He sank into a very comfortable chair and reached for her phone, discovering along the way her toy rat, and a couche ball. A toy lobster sat on a pile of notes. Peter suspected none of these were the kid’s.

She seemed cool. The rumors about her held only partially true, as far as he could tell. After all, he was sitting at her desk and when she walked in, she might kill him.

It was a risk he was willing to take. He picked up the phone and dialed.

***

Murphy was going to kill Miles. She was going to take him by the scruff of his measly little neck and snap him right in two. Sixteen times. He’d called sixteen times. Eight of those calls had woken Avery, which meant she was going to stick live worms in Miles’ office and wait.

She was so tired. And she had three editing sessions schedule on three different stories, plus time in research with Kelly. The deep background on this information dump about Clinton’s real estate dealings was enough to make her quit. She was tired and she was going to eat Miles for lunch. Just sit down in her office and slice him open and drink his whiny little blood.

“Miles!” She screamed at him as she bolted off the elevator. “What the hell was that?! My kid hears that answering machine and I’ll blame you if his first words are --”

And then it dawned on her when a camera was shoved in her face.

“Today is the day the BBC is here.”

Oh shit. Now she couldn’t even yell at him properly. This wasn’t how she wanted to bring this to him. She’d wanted to sit down, over a cup of coffee, and rationally discuss changes to her schedule, changes she was still figuring out for herself. All she knew was that she wanted to cut back on travel - at least to places she couldn’t bring Avery. But she needed her boss to be an adult and help her work it out. Instead, it was temper tantrum city. Sometimes it was easier dealing with Avery and she was still coming to terms with the reality that one could not rationalize with a one year old.

Apparently, one could also not rationalize with a thirty-two year old Harvard educated producer.

Miles’ anxiety was enough to make her question her decision. She didn’t want to cut back and change her contract. She wanted to stay home and put her kid to bed at night. Why was that so hard for everyone to understand? Yes, she’d told them all nothing would change. But that had been when Avery was the size of a coffee bean. Before she’d come to understand her parents in ways she never had before. She needed to do better than they had. Not just for Avery, but for herself as well.

So she took a deep breath, much like she had to do when Avery was melting down, and looked Miles in the eye. No, you nitwit, she wasn’t trying to kill him on camera. She just wanted to spend time with her kid and now she had to hide everything from the damn BBC because they hadn’t had time to talk about this before the camera crew showed up. If they’d had time to talk, they could have handled this conversation rationally, on tape, and it could have been a fantastic look into how networks were changing to accommodate the schedules of working mothers. Now, she was going to call Vice President Gore ahead of schedule and hope to god he was there.

Really, she was going to kill Miles.

Stepping into her office, everything froze. There was someone in here. Someone in her chair. God she needed to get the lock on her door fixed. Jake had broken it that afternoon when he’d shown up to take her to lunch and instead had gotten her pregnant.

Sweet Jesus, Peter Hunt was at her desk? And he looked even better in person than he did on camera? What the hell was going on and why was he playing with her rubber rat?

Peter Hunt was at her desk. Peter Hunt. Foreign Correspondent to the Gods. Young. Tan. Playing with her rubber rat and he was on her phone and she was about to kill him.

He made some smartass comment about getting busted for using an office phone for a personal call and hung up. She watched him rise to his feet, trying to keep a neutrally annoyed expression on her face. He didn’t deserve the look her inner self was giving him, or how her inner self was currently undressing him and shoving him back in her office chair.

Yeah, this was a problem. She shut it down.

“Hi, Murphy,” he said, extending a hand. “Peter Hunt.”

“Yeah, I know.” She made a point not to touch him, but to take her rat back. He was all the rage right now - more so than ever. Just last a week, a Serbian border guard had held a gun to his head and the cameras caught every moment of him being completely calm under pressure and saving not only his life, but his crew’s and the people around him. All because he asked the guy to tell his story. Hunt was a great reporter and the fact that he was sitting in her office worried her. What was the network up to?

Was that Old Spice she smelled?

He introduced himself to the BBC reporter, but his eyes came back to her and she could only meet them, her feet shifting slightly. Really, would it be improper to warn the BBC that full access also had to mean her jumping on this guy?

No. Stop. Murphy. Stop. He wasn’t making eyes at her. Stop. He was in her space, touching her stuff, using her phone. Without permission. She didn’t even like people using her stuff with permission. No, he had to be killed. It would save face.

She stole back her toys, one by one, while he looked at her and her nipples jumped to attention and she’d never been so glad for padded bras and jackets. This was ridiculous. She had to focus on calling the Vice President and getting this interloper out of her office. Also, did her vibrator have batteries ….?

She’d pick up fresh ones on the drive home.

Jesus what was she doing?

She was calling the Vice President and it was going terribly. Of course it was. A BBC crew was trained on her and the cockiest reporter this side of the Atlantic was watching her go down in flames as she turned away and asked the little boy who answered the phone, “Is your daddy home?”

She’d call back.

Goddamnit.

“I think it’s time for one of our story meetings!” She said, jumping to cover. It was very much not time for a story meeting. In fact, none of them would be ready for a story meeting. But dammit if she wasn’t now trying to distract a BBC crew and Peter Fucking Hunt. Why was he in her office again? And was it hot or was it just her body reminding her that eventually, she would stop ovulating.

Great. Just what she needed popping into her mind right now.

“Mind if I use the phone again?” He taunted her. “I promise to be done by the time the big hand is on the six.”

Okay, she was annoyed again.

***

Okay, so that was a bit more than he expected.

He’d expected her to be a force of nature. He’d expected her to storm in and possibly kill him for being in her space. He hadn’t been expecting to get lost in the most stunning set of indigo blue eyes he’d ever dared to look in to. He hadn’t been expecting so much power into such a compact frame. He hadn’t been expecting flowing blonde hair, and a choker necklace, and the way her lips quirked when she stared back at him.

He’d been expecting her to push back when he challenged her on her story ideas, and he’d expected the shock of all of them being informed that he was now part of the FYI team. He hadn’t expected the fury to flare from her nostrils, or how her eyes darkened as she met his gaze head on. He’d fully expected her to shove him away when he put his arm around her for the benefit of the BBC cameras. Instead, for the briefest of moments, he’d felt her melt against him.

Oh this was bad. It was very bad.

Peter braced himself against the wall of the elevator, only half listening to Miles’ yammering and Mitchell Baldwin’s ideas for his segments. What he wanted was to settle into his office and shake away the mental image of Murphy avoiding his handshake but not breaking eye contact, and how stunning she looked in that ruffled blouse. This was insane. He was here to work, not crush on the talent.

“It’s small,” Miles was apologizing about the office, “but it’s serviceable.”

Peter didn’t care. He was here to work, not lounge. Really, it was about the same size as Murphy’s office, and not too far from it. Looking out the internal window, he could actually see through the slats of hers. She was standing at the shelf, talking to someone he couldn’t see, holding a toddler on her hip. Miles and Mitchell kept talking, but Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away from the toughest woman in journalism balancing a baby in her arms and laughing.

The conversation ended and a tall man took the kid. Murphy waved goodbye and then moved back to her desk and the moment was over. Peter shook his head and forced himself to focus on Mitchell and Miles. “No,” he said to whatever it was that Miles had just asked. “I’m good.” It seemed to work. Miles seemed happy. Mitchell seemed comfortable. “I’ll just get myself moved in and be upstairs with you guys after lunch for a planning session.”

“We’ll get you some supplies,” Miles said. “And a secretary.”

“Do I really need …” he paused and nodded. He knew nothing about magazine shows. So. Okay. He’d take what they gave him.

But alone, he stared through the glass again. Murphy was at her desk, reading, and he just couldn’t stop looking.

***

The fish hadn’t phased him. Usually, her leaving a freshly bought fish on the hood of someone’s car at least put some kind of fear of god into them. Instead, she’d come into her office to find a rubber one on her desk. Good one, Hunt. So you could take it. She rolled her eyes and hung her suit for the show up, smoothing down the plastic dry cleaner bag. Before she sat, she did double check to make sure that there weren’t any other presents lying around.

His office was across the corridor from hers and she could see him sometimes, when the blinds were open. Today he was pacing, probably reading through his copy, and she had to admit that she admired his work ethic. A late night phone conversation with Miles had granted a temporary work schedule where she worked from home more often, came in later on Mondays, and left at noon on Fridays to take Avery to his gymboree class. In return, she would be more available for weekend editing sessions - as long as she could bring Avery with her. Somehow, Peter was always here on those off hours. She also couldn’t be sure it was from him, but on Saturday there had been a big crayon and coloring book set waiting in her office. Not that she’d say anything. Not yet.

He paused in his pacing and through the offices, their eyes met for a long minute. Murphy swallowed. Whenever she was around him, her stomach flip flopped and her heart beat just a bit faster. She hated it. Whatever part of her was turning into a sixteen year old girl needed to dig herself back into the depths of her subconscious and stay there. But that same part of her brain couldn’t shake how damn good it had felt when he put his arm around her in front of the BBC crew. Not that anyone needed to know. Murphy turned around, making a point to put the fish over on her shelf with the other toys. This one she’d use later. She had work to do.

But it didn’t stop her from glancing over as she sat down. He was focused, as if the moment never happened, and she shook it off. They both had work to do.

***

Peter now knew two things: the first was that Murphy Brown could throw a punch better than most anyone he’d ever met and that included his little sister. The other was just how perceptive she was. She stood there in front of him and called him out, so much so that he looked down to check and see if she was actually holding his heart in her hands.

“This macho thing is just a cover,” she challenged him, her blue eyes never wavering. They stood there on the empty set, squared off against each other. He hadn’t been able to tell what was running through her mind, but she’d nailed him. It was true, the macho thing was just a cover. He knew it. She knew it. This was how she’d made General Poindexter cry - and not in a Barbara Walters way. Without understanding how he’d come to be there, he was in her hot seat, she was interviewing him without the benefit of any kind of preparation. He had no walls built to protect himself. She just stood there, firing truth at him, and all he had to fight back with was a sore jaw and nerves that were shot from being unable to sleep.

“I took this job because I wanted to, not because I can’t cut it anymore,” he snapped at her, mirroring her own words from an hour ago. And he realized he was using the same tactics on her as his buddies who were razzing him for taking the FYI job. Every last one of them had said something about how soft he was getting.

But, how did one admit they’d needed out after racing toward a makeshift hospital, a little boy in his arms? Shouldn’t that make him want to stay? To protect? To tell that little boy’s story? He’d run like a scared cat, hiding in DC, and this woman had taken one look at him and figured it all out. Okay, two looks. She said she hadn’t figured it out right away. But what stunned him the most was that when he stepped into her personal space, when he wasn’t sure if he could control his temper, when she pushed him to the point that he was ready to shove back, she didn’t shrink away. She didn’t back off. She stood her ground and pushed her shoulders forward and called him, yet again, on his crap.

Was this woman ever wrong?

It was intoxicating.

And then, she surprised him again.

“Okay,” she said, still in his personal space, “maybe you did strike a nerve. Not because it’s the truth but because I know that some people are wondering am I pulling back because I’ve lost my edge, because I’m not as hungry as I used to be …”

“Tell me about it,” he said, inching closer. “Some people are probably thinking that I took this job because that last bullet was a little too close or that last border guard a little too crazy.” He wasn’t ready to talk about the little boy yet.

She chuckle was sympathetic. “It’s ridiculous what some people lie awake worrying about until two in the morning…”

The confession ripped away the last of the facade and he met her gaze full on. But this time, he couldn’t stop the flip flop of his stomach. He felt like the freshman on the varsity team, crushing on the head cheerleader. “Two? Try four.” She was being honest, he would be too.

“You were up til four?” She said, quirking an eyebrow as she walked away. The moment was over, but he understood her now and it seemed, she understood him.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about me!” He said, chasing after her.

“I wasn’t talking about me either,” she grinned. “I was talking about Jane Pauley.”

“I was talking about Stone Phillips,” he teased right back. He fell into step with her as they left the studio, walking back toward the elevator, toward home.

“Are you coming to Phil’s?” She asked as they stepped into the elevator. Whatever perfume she was wearing wafted over, taunting him, and he fought the urge to step closer and smell her hair. She was definitely much more than anyone he’d ever worked with realized.

“Am I invited?” Peter raised an eyebrow at her. Per usual, she didn’t flinch. God she was good.

“You always were, Peter. Arrogant ass that you are. But like it or not on all our sides, you are part of the team. So, you’re welcome to join us at Phil’s for a post-show dinner.” She paused. “New guy pays.”

“I see how it is,” he chuckled, ready to decline. But instead, he found himself turning toward the stairs. “All right. Lead on.” Some instinct to guide her by the small of her back almost took over, but he crushed it quickly under his shoe. She’d punch him again if he tried that. So he just walked next to her, and let her hold open the door to the bar. The gang waited, cautious, but this time, he was welcomed at the table.

***

  
Oh god. The Dater was back. Murphy could feel her rising in the back of her throat, fighting her way past the lingering memories of cigarettes and whiskey, back when she’d been far more likely to accept a date on any given night from any eligible bachelor worthy of her time. Movie stars, sports stars, fellow journalists, and even a few real estate types and philanthropists had come her way and she’d tucked her perfectly manicured hand into the crook of their elbow to make a showing at whatever event they wanted to show her off. Before dinner was done, she’d always been unable to stop The Dater from planning weekends in the country and trips to Paris. Drink after drink would break down the walls that kept her in check, and she’d find her voice through the course of the evening.

Usually, the evening ended with a perfectly wonderful kiss and sometimes more if she was feeling frisky and needed an itch scratched. The Dater would watch the Date walk away and know there was no second call. She was arm candy, and most of the time she was fine with it.

A few stuck around for more than a couple of weeks.

Until she sobered up, Murphy was never quite sure why she couldn’t keep them around but she blamed the booze. After she sobered up, she could at least chalk it up to the reality that she was terrible, absolutely terrible, at relationships because there wasn’t any room in her life for other people’s needs. It wasn’t just that she was self-centered and demanding, it was that she took up all of the space in her life. Jerry had been the one to make that painfully obvious and it didn’t matter how much she cared about him, or how much he cared about her, their lives weren’t ones to change for each other.

Once Avery came along, it was actually easier to understand what she needed to do to create space in her life, but between kid and job, there really wasn’t time. Oh, there was Michael, but he lasted one night - and didn’t even come in for coffee after - and a lunch date two weeks later. That was it since the baby was born. Well, there was whatever awkward chemistry she felt with Mitchell, but she was ready to give up that part of her life.

Now, The Dater was back. Humming as she bid Eldin goodnight, sauntering up the stairs to check on her son, changing out of her suit into something comfortable for bed, settling down at the vanity to wipe the makeup from her face.

God. The Dater was back.

Murphy took a deep breath and shoved the bitch back down into the recesses from whence she’d come. Just because she’d punched the guy, and then been willing to talk to him after didn’t mean she wanted to jump on him. Okay, so he was one of the most beautiful men she’d ever laid eyes on, but all he ever could be was a fantasy. She was older, a mother, and even if Peter was interested (not that she was) it wasn’t like he had a life she could fit in to. She knew his life. Up until about eighteen months ago, she’d lived that life.

Face washed, she stood up, suddenly exhausted. Avery’s internal clock had him up by 6:30 now, which gave her about five hours of sleep before Thursday had to begin. The Dater hovered, poking her, riling her up in all the worst ways. Murphy shoved her down one last time.

Peter was a nuisance. He was there to take her stories, take her place at the table. The network wouldn’t hesitate to replace her and it had been a while since the others had reached out. So. Here she was. No, she had to keep the upper hand. She had to keep The Dater at bay. She had to stop flirting. But he was smart - god he was smart. And he was a damn good reporter. Probably better than Frank. Almost as good as she was. She liked was way of looking at stories - even if she didn’t agree with him all the time. She also liked the way his ass looked in a pair of jeans.

Damnit.

Nope. This wasn’t a good thing at all.

Maybe she’d ask Mitchell out sooner rather than later. She had to shove Peter and the Dater back where they belonged. She had a job to do. And Peter Hunt was only going to get in her way. He was arrogant and self absorbed and he wanted her turf. She wasn’t going to give up ground. Even if she did like talking to him. Not that anyone needed to know that.

If she could just erase the look in his eyes as they left the studio and how he’d handed over her purse as they left Phil’s and the smile he’d tossed her before she got into her car, she’d be fine. Oh god.

This had to be stopped.

Now.


End file.
